Purified
by drecklyn
Summary: And so she cleansed him, cleaning away all the blood and dirt that deprived his body, though her heart lurched and sped as she discovered multiple scars of war that would remain on his skin for eternity. 2x05 missing scene and pov


_Purified_

**And so she cleansed him, cleaning away all the blood and dirt that deprived his body, though her heart lurched and sped as she discovered multiple scars of war that would remain on his skin for eternity. **

_AN: After watching episode 2x5 countless times, I simply found myself wondering what was going on through Mary's head when Matthew was brought into the hospital. I'm sure we can all probably see that she is shocked, but I wanted to go deeper into her thoughts. And so thus, I present to you this little one-shot._

"You have volunteers don't you? Well that's what I am, a volunteer," Mary found her words professing a far greater strength than she was feeling as she spoke them bravely to Doctor Clarkson. However much she wanted to run, however much she wanted to hide, she knew she had to be there, not simply for Matthew but for herself as well. After all the nasty things she had said to him, after all the false hope and dishonest promises, she at least owed him this.

Doctor Clarkson gave her a hesitating look, but finally gave in, heaving a sigh as he bore into her eyes, a look of understanding passing over his face. "Alright," He said softly, turning towards the nurses bringing in the broken soldiers.

Feeling relieved that she would not be driven out of the hospital, Mary turned to Sybil waiting for instruction, the bark of Doctor Clarkson echoing around the room as he commanded everyone that bustled under his gaze.

"You stand there," Sybil said, pointing her sister towards the end of one of the beds near the wall. Mary took to her position and braced herself, closing her eyes and counting to ten, something that Carson had taught her to do when she was a small child whenever she got scared.

And then she saw him.

He was laid out on a stretcher under a thin blanket, two nurses carrying him towards a bed near Mary. Her eyes widened and she nearly let out a gasp as they drew nearer. Matthew Crawley, the future heir of Downton, looked absolutely broken. He lay stiff as a board, gashes and scars splashed carelessly across his face, his eyes closed and body completely rigid. It was a stance far too undetached for him to merely have been sleeping and she felt her stomach churn as Sybil beckoned her forward.

"Take him under his feet," Sybil said gently, as Mary helped the soldier lift Matthews's legs, a look of shock still gracing her face as they carried him two inches, and placed him gently on the cot below. In the sunlight pouring from the windows, Mary could fully see the damage done to his face, and she wanted to run, run far away and never return until he was normal again. She couldn't bear to think what the rest of his body looked like. But she remained stationary as Sybil leaned towards him softly.

"Cousin Matthew? Can you hear me?" She breathed, waiting for a response but receiving none.

"He is breathing," The soldier said stoutly, "But he's not been conscious since we've had him. We've filled him full of morphine,"

Sybil nodded, her eyebrows knitted together. "Thank you," She said, sitting up and glancing at Mary as the soldier gave them a sad smile and departed into the crowd.

Mary stepped forward and gently took the tag that was strung across Matthew's blanket, an emotionless gaze sweeping over her, afraid to read it.

"What does it say?" Sybil asked, seeming to share Mary's hesitation.

"Probable spinal damage," Mary said in a condescending voice, glancing up at her sister for answers as a numb pain fell over her. Matthew might never be able to bike again, or walk again, or even move and the suddenness of it all came upon her in a drunken haze, not quite able to comprehend everything.

"It could mean anything," Sybil reassured her, gathering up Matthew's uniform at the end of the bed. "We'll know more in the morning…" Her voice trailed off as she looked down at what had fallen from the neat pile. "What's this doing here?"

Mary's eyes widened as she recognized that small toy dog she had given Matthew as a departing present, hoping that by some small chance it would give her reassurance that he would be safer with it.

"I gave it to him for luck," Mary answered, her eyes trailing back to Matthew's broken form. "He was probably carrying it when he fell,"

"If only it had worked," Sybil said pointedly, taking the stack of clothes and setting them neatly on the table beside the cot.

Mary gave her sister a withering look and said in a stout voice, "He's alive isn't he?" She was frankly quite pleased that he had taken it with him. Perhaps he had been thinking of her as much as she had been of him at the front.

Sybil pressed her lips, but did not press the subject. "I should wash him," She said distractedly, turning back towards Matthew. "This bit can be grim. Sometimes we have to cut all the clothes they've traveled in. and there's bound to be a lot of blood," She gazed up at Mary who remained stationary, the look of shock still worn on her face. However Mary refused to leave him now, not when she had already seen so much, so she firmly stood her ground.

"How hot should the water be?" She asked, ready to be at help all she could.

Sybil almost looked as though she was going to smile at Mary, but brushed it off quickly and said kindly, "Warm more than hot. And bring some towels,"

Mary nodded obediently picking up the large bucket on the side of Matthew's cot, her heals clicking on the wood floor as she approached a large sink towards the back of the room. She filled it diligently, her mind racing as the warm water hit the bucket with a pounding sound, matching the speed and ferocity of her heart, beating a mile a minute.

After what seemed like an eternity, the bucket was full and Mary placed it carefully on the side of the counter as she draped some towels from the cupboard around her left arm, carefully hoisting up the bucket and bringing it back to Sybil.

Her sister had already removed Matthew's shirt and what Mary saw made her nearly drop the tub of water. There was blood. Blood everywhere. Dried blood of course, but blood nonetheless. Scratches were imminent among his chest and arms and bruises covered his neck, tiny shrapnel's of dirt and glass littering his body. But Mary once again reaffirmed herself and stood her ground, clinching her jaw as she set the bucket down on the floor, looking up at her sister for further instruction.

"Dip a towel into the water, but don't soak it and try to clear some of the blood from his body. Be gentle though, we don't want to hurt him," Sybil's voice immediately snapped into her infamous demeanor of order, as she handed Mary a cloth, taking one herself.

Mary did as she was told, and slowly yet gently began to clear his right arm of blood and dirt and all the other foul things that had littered his body. It was long-going work, but Mary was so determined on the task at hand, that she barely noticed time elapsing around her. She carefully brushed over every scar with the cloth, every gash and wound that had made her stomach turn only a short time before, and gazed upon them in a new light. They were not scars, not to her.

They were marks of a brave man who had been wounded fighting for his country, fighting for what was right and just in the world. They were scars that bore stories and marks of hope and prominent victory, for if he had failed, he would not be in front of her.

And so she cleansed him, cleaning away all the blood and dirt that deprived his body, though her heart lurched and sped as she discovered multiple signs of war that would remain on his skin for eternity.

At last the work was done, and the two sisters who had been silent the entire time turned towards each other with a sad sigh. "Thank you Mary," Sybil was the first to speak, and though they were such tiny words, they meant so much to the eldest sister, and she gave Sybil a quick nod as the nurse turned away to clean the bucket, and deprive the towels of their filth.

And in her brief period of solitary with Matthew, she leaned forward and took his hand, softly stroking it with her thumb. No matter how bruised he was, how utterly broken he seemed to be, she knew deep down that her good luck charm had worked. He had come back to her.


End file.
